WOTD Ficlet:  The Eight
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: A blessing is not something that we should wait or yearn for. It is something earned without expectation.


Author's notes: A while back, I signed up to Webster's "Word of the Day" email list and decided to challenge myself by writing a ficlet a day using the word of the day as a prompt. This was LJ exclusive and I only managed a few weeks of it before real life got in the way. Due to some . . . unhappy circumstances in my life right now, I decided to resurrect the Word of the Day ficlets which will be posted daily at my LJ (see profile). In the spirit of sharing, I finally decided to post the Word of the Day ficlets I had done in the past here at .

These are all unedited therefore you might see a marked lack of quality in the writing.

All of that being said, this has VERY STRONG Christian overtones so if you are offended easily by religion, I advise you to stop reading now.

Father Noah is an original character of mine. His first appearance was in "Congregation".

The Eight

A Word of the Day Ficlet

By Kysra

She finds herself in this place, in this pew, with this man more often of late. It is calm here and the seat is plush, comfortable, quiet. He is indulgent without being overbearing.

They often talk of nothing save greeting and good-bye; though today they turn to theology and learning of each other. What she knows of Christianity and the Christian god is sparse and heavily biased in the negative - though not because of that god's message but the application of it in most instances. Robin is often unforgiving of life's tragedies, and he tends to blame all forces that may or may not be involved while punishing those who perpetrate those tragedies.

Father Noah - the man at her side - is biased in the positive; however, his view is also tempered with age and experience that Robin lacks. It is, she must admit, a more realistic and logical view despite the Father's seeming perpetual beatific smile and soft eyes in the face of the many misfortunes that befall his adopted flock.

Including herself.

Restless, she stands, cloak swishing about her ankles, to walk about the perimeter of the cavernous church-space. There are plaques lining the facing walls at measured intervals depicting the heinous scene of Christ's crucifixion, and she averts her gaze, feeling the nails piercing her wrists and ankles, the spear in her side, the sheer agony, in a fit of late sympathy.

And just as she finds herself in this place again, she finds herself ineffectually pleading a heart-deep, silent, "Why?"

"Because, just as his life was a series of blessings, so too was his death the culmination of them." Father Noah is behind her, she knows - knew the moment he moved from his seat to follow.

She merely closes her eyes, bows her head - in contrition or prayer, she's not sure. She does not know enough to assign herself any sort of faith system in the world, does not understand enough about this world's gods to focus her energies toward them. "I . . . don't understand."

He has told her the story of Jesus, the Christ, before, has struggled with her personal ineptitude in comprehending such a strange, harrowing tale; because her experience is so similar yet fundamentally different, she cannot conceive of a benevolent deity who could so love the world it would sacrifice it's own child to save everything. Her own father, a deity in his own right, was too set on destroying.

"You think of loss when you see him."

"He was _killed_, Father. And if I'm understanding correctly, his murderers were never brought to justice. Are you saying that such a thing can result in a gain?"

There, that smile so pure - like a child's - yet laced with knowledge. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Jesus did not die, Raven. His body did, certainly; but he rose again and now lives with his Father in Heaven. He waits for us there, has readied a place for all of us when the time comes."

"And that . . . is his death blessing? The promise that his followers will join him one day?"

"Not just followers, Raven. God is more egalitarian than that."

"So . . . your people, they wait to die to be . . . with him?" It is anathema to her . . . this yearning Father hits at, when she has spent all this time running from and secretly wishing to kill the god of her life.

He chuckles and the sound is strangely muffled, even in this large room with it's empty light. "There's no need to wait. One can easily be with God while still living."

She looks to him then, brows drawn and frown fixed. "You speak in riddles. Either he is dead or alive or here or not."

"That is part of the blessing, Raven. God is everywhere, no space can confine Him. His blessing is just as infinite. It's why we can pray safe in the knowledge that He will hear us wherever we are whenever we are."

"But - what has anyone done to deserve that sort of blessing?" She is near pleading now, wanting so badly to leave because this conversation is uncomfortable and makes her feel as empty as this building with it's too tall ceiling and bare pews and backlit altar. Blessings in Azarath were limited and specifically formulated for a certain situation and person. They were not blankets with which to cover everyone and everything.

The priest rubs at his cheek as if in deep thought then chucks her on the chin and bends slightly to her level. "I think I see now where you're getting confused. A blessing is not something that we should wait or yearn for. It is something earned without expectation."

Her confused look deepens slightly even as he goes on, slinging an arm about her shoulders and steering her ahead, closer to the shining altar and its wooden Tabernacle. "The eight Beatitudes of Jesus are a good example." The stop before the last plaque in the line, and he lifts his free arm to point to the script rendered there.

_Blessed are the poor in spirit,  
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven._

_Blessed are they who mourn,  
for they shall be comforted._

_Blessed are the meek,  
for they shall inherit the earth._

_Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,  
for they shall be satisfied._

"Each feeds into the other, you see. To be poor in spirit is to be humble and humility is the key to good living without the expectation of reward."

She can feel her frown deepening. She is human enough to understand that people are inherently selfish beings. "How can . . . How does one live without expecting rewards for good behavior?"

He patted her shoulder before steering her across the altar's threshold to find the facing plague across the room. "Well, that is the struggle, isn't it? The idea behind the Beatitudes is purity of spirit."

"But that's an impossible goal!"

"Is it?" He doesn't sound convinced.

She wants to scoff, to throw off his hands and arm, but her eyes find the latter half of these ancient words; and as she reads, something inside her untwists.

_Blessed are the merciful,  
for they shall obtain mercy._

_Blessed are the pure of heart,  
for they shall see God._

_Blessed are the peacemakers,  
for they shall be called children of God._

_Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,  
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven._

Because if the blessings were reversed and morphed into curses, she knows they would spell her father's will and her downfall, the destruction of the earth. These blessings, the Beatitudes, they are the antithesis of her father's goals and thoughts.

She suddenly understands that the words are not literal. The words are to be lived because this god Father Noah reveres has inserted a piece of himself into everyone; and to do good, to live purely is to reflect that fragile piece to the world and draw the pieces in everyone else out.

And to spread that fundamental goodness is to know this God, this Christ, this _bliss_ that is always there in the bright depths of Father's dark eyes.

God Bless.

_Word: Beatific_


End file.
